The Pining
by juicy-calamari
Summary: After a fight with Fiddleford, Ford finds himself at Greasy's, upset and confused. Luckily, a certain waitress is there to help him sort out what he's feeling. McGucket/Ford.


**this is one in a series of fiddauthor fics i wrote for tumblr, re-posted here for convenience. enjoy!**

* * *

Stanford hadn't laid a hand on his coffee.

Hadn't even thought about tasting it; too easily caught up in his own brooding to really notice the little things in his surroundings.

He disconnected as soon as he entered the diner, sopping wet, and squirmed into an empty booth. Being pressed against the window, Ford could hear the sharp pitter-pattering of rain more distinctly. His gaze became fixated on each individual drop that trickled down the glass, until watching its' inevitable disintegration at the bottom and repeating the cycle for a different one.

Silently observing the weather outside was better than allowing his mind to wander off to him, like it had the inclination of doing lately.

The sound of porcelain scraping against polished wood jostled Ford with a start. A plump waitress stood in front of him, steadily pouring more coffee from the pot into his mug. Her auburn hair was tied back into a neat bun, making her cat-head earrings more visible. Gradually, the coffee dripped over the brim; overflowing onto the tabletop.

"Just tell me when!" the woman exclaimed, not aware of the surplus of joe she was adding.

"Uh- That's enough," Ford replied. He put a hand up and the spilling ceased.

The cup was returned to him, drenched in java along the sides. Grabbing a bundle of paper napkins from the dispenser, he began to mop up the drink that pooled all over his area. Despite his slight annoyance, Stanford tried to be polite by flashing her a smile.

"Thank-you, ma'am."

"Please, call me Susan!" the waitress said, pointing to the name-tag pinned to her apron. The pot of dark liquid sloshed around in her grasp as she started gesturing to him.

"Say, you haven't been drinking much of your coffee since you got here. I didn't get you the wrong kind, did I? Silly me."

Ford dabbed the handle of his mug. "No, not at all. I've just been… thinking, a lot," he asserted. "Maybe a little too much for my own good."

Susan seemed to perk up at the last remark. Squeezing into the booth parallel to him, she placed the steaming pot down next to a pile of empty sugar-packets.

"Care to share, stranger?" she questioned, putting her chin in her hands. Her glittery turquoise-painted nails twinkled against her cheeks.

Ford stared down into his coffee, pensive in expression. He didn't go into town that often (mostly, grocery shopping was the extent of his visits out mingling with the locals); he knew of the strange rituals and personalities that existed in the area and kept his distance from them both. Never was he really uninterested in getting to know some of the people that lived here, but he also knew that the more focused he was on finishing the portal, as well as the more ignorant the citizens were, the better.

He didn't travel all the way here to make friends, after all.

But taking that fact into consideration, what would be the harm in telling some random waitress about his dilemma? The only other person he could talk to was Fiddleford, and situations like the one he was in now made that difficult to do.

He took a short slurp of coffee, feeling it burn his tongue, before nodding.

"I've lived in Gravity Falls for quite a while now," he commented, meeting her eyes. "I enlisted a family of lumberjacks to help me construct my house, out in the woods."

Susan let out a gasp. "Oh! I've heard about you!" she responded. "You're the mysterious science man everyone always talks about! No wonder I've never seen you around before."

Ford chuckled at the nickname. He wasn't surprised to find out that he had an established reputation among the townsfolk of Gravity Falls. This was a close-knit community of people; talk spreads, quickly and easily.

"Yes, that's me. So: with the workload out there so hard to keep track of by myself, I decided to call up one of my old friends. We… went to college together, back in the day," he explained. He tilted his head down again, the smoke from his drink fogging up his glasses. A comforting heat radiated over him.

"We had a lot in common. Still do, actually."

The lady across the table, who had been intently listening to his story, loudly slapped her hands down. The action caused the salt and pepper shakers next to her to wobble.

"So you and your college sweetheart are living together and you've realized you're madly in love with her?" she guessed, suddenly excited over the development.

Stanford's eyes bugged out as he began to gag on the coffee still lodged in his throat. He broke out into a coughing fit, clenching the thick collar that hugged his neck.

"NO! N-no, it's nothing like that!" he croaked out, in-between spluttered choking sounds. He didn't catch a glimpse of himself in the reflective glass of the window to his left, but he knew he had to be flushed at this point; from the hot temperature of his drink coupled with the turn the conversation had taken.

A sly grin sneaked onto Susan's lipstick-coated mouth. "Oh, I understand, it's nothing like that at all…. WINK!" She paused her sentence to direct a wink at him. Subtle, he thought.

"Just tell her how you feel and voila! The two of you are living happily together out in the middle of the forest, teaching your children how to hunt little woodland creatures for food. How romantic!"

Ford gulped down the remainder of his joe, eyes tightly shut in embarrassment. This woman- who didn't even know the entire context of the situation- was misinterpreting everything, jumping to conclusions left and right. Yet, for whatever reason, he wanted to hear her input on things. He didn't want to correct her out of curiosity of what she would offer him.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his thick sleeve, he collected the soggy napkins in one fist.

"Well uh, 'she' and I had an argument this morning. We've known each other for years now and we've never had a fight before. And… now she's mad at me, I think. And I don't know what to do to make things better," he informed the waitress.

Susan blinked. "Just say you're sorry," she advised, toying with a strand of hair that came loose from her bun. "Women always like it when men own up to their mistakes, you know! And maybe getting her a box of chocolates or some flowers would help. I know if I had a man, I'd have him bring me chocolate."

Stanford laid some crumpled-up bills on the table, then proceeded to slip out of the booth.

"I'll definitely take it into consideration. Thank you, Susan," he proclaimed, heading for the nearest trash can. Susan remained seated, but turned around to beckon him out with a wave of her hand.

"Good luck with your lady friend! And come back anytime," she called.

* * *

Ford stood on his front porch, the rain cascading down behind him.

This was a terrible idea.

Roses?! They were fighting, not celebrating their wedding anniversary. What would happen if Fiddleford interpreted them as a romantic gesture? Did a part of Ford WANT them to be seen as a romantic gesture? He wasn't sure himself. All he knew was that the chances of this 'apology' ending up badly outweighed the odds of anything positive arising from it.

He took a deep breath of the earthy air that came along with the rain and unlocked the font door.

Immediately, Ford was hit with some sort of food odor wafting from the kitchen. Flowers hidden behind his back, he sauntered down the hallway to find out what was going on.

"Fiddleford?" he hollered out.

Set-up before him were two sets of dishware, both across from each other on the dinner table, amidst a batch of lit scented-candles; filling the room with the fragrance of lavender meshing with the smell of BBQ and mashed potatoes, along with an array of other Southern-common foods. Ford couldn't help but let his jaw drop at the sight.

Footsteps trotted behind him. "You're back!" Stanford turned to see Fiddleford hunched over in the doorway, out of breath.

"You… took off so damn fast… din't give me… a chance to say…" His assistant locked gazes with him. "Sorry," he said, barely above a whisper. Something nagged at Ford's heartstrings to see him so distraught.

"You did all of this for me?" he asked, motioning at the candles. His fingers dug into the tinfoil wrapping of the roses, still out of Fiddleford's sight.

He nodded. "I know it wasn't your fault I had to work overtime. I was jus' frustrated, 's all. So I decided to whip up some Southern cuisine for us when ya decided to come back. It's… cold now. I miscombobulated the time frame."

Ford surveyed the food and the set-up for a second time before whisking out the flowers and shoving the bouquet in front of him.

"I got these for you," he blurted out, sweat forming on his forehead. Fiddleford eyed them for a second, apparently stunned into silence.

"I'm sorry too. I r-really am. I wasn't thidkin- Uh, thinking straight. Should have been more… considerate," Ford said. Fiddleford reached into the bouquet; feeling the crimson petals in-between his fingers. He then looked at his boss, expression soft.

"Stanford, I'm… astounded," he muttered. "I thought y' just went off to get wasted, to be quite honest. But this… these are so lovely. And thoughtful of you."

Ford absolutely hated the blush that he was sure had tinted his whole face. Loathed not knowing if the signs he was seeing were actually there or not. The gamble was too much, and he was aware of it.

These off-putting emotions that stirred within the confines of his mind had the potential to ruin everything if they were wrong. They could break one of the only friendships he'd ever made, outside of his brother. They could drive Fiddleford away; leaving Stan to finish the project single-handedly.

And yet, none of those doubts could constrain him from at least trying.

The space between the two reduced as Ford sedately bent forward. Corsage still in hand, he wrapped his arms around the man; rose petals brushing the back of Fiddleford's head. Ford's throat was dry, making it challenging for words to come out.

"I d-don't know if this is right or not," he stammered, holding his partner close. "I've never been willing… to give anything like this a chance. R-romance isn't my forte."

Fiddleford didn't display much of a reaction; which, to Stanford, was almost as bad a rejection. Why wouldn't this be eliciting some sort of response? How could he possibly remain neutral as he was basically being told a love confession from the guy that signs his paychecks?!

Ford started to retreat, mentally scolding himself.

He messed up.

He did something risky and brought about consequences for it. He should have just left it alone, those feelings buried underneath a wall of impenetrable psyche… shouldn't have gone with his gut, this one time… His cognitive blabbering was interrupted by Fiddleford clasping a hand to his cheek and delicately fastening his lips on Ford's.

And the sensation left him dazed.

His first kiss was something Stanford had envisioned ever since he was a teenager, having to listen to Stanley's constant bragging about the girls that hung around him nonstop. While the feeling differed from how he had imagined it to be (as well as who he pictured it would be with), those 'stomach butterflies' he had always been told of proved to be real.

Fiddleford tasted like green-mint tea… a smooth flavor, almost refreshing. Quite a different experience from actually drinking it, however.

Then, just like that, it was over. Fiddleford took a step backwards, eyes still fixed on his mouth.

"Did that reaffirm anything?" he asked. His hand lingered on Ford's cheek, stroking the side of his chin slowly. Ford's breathing began to even itself out in pace. He gave a quick series of nods.

"I was really nervous… about that thing I just said," he admitted.

Fiddleford chuckled. "I could tell. Ya still look 'bout as red as a freshly-harvested tomato." At that, blood circulated even more to his cheeks. Relief at the teasing filled his chest. It was so nice to hear that laugh again. It was nice that their friendship remained intact.

"S-so. The feeling's mutual?"

His assistant rolled his eyes and proceeded to playfully shove him. "Classic Ford, always needin' confirmation for things plain as day- yes," Fiddleford stated. "The feeling is indeed mutual. I was honestly jus' waitin' for the day when you'd come around and notice… if you ever did."

Stanford shuffled his feet around as the bouquet was pried from his grasp."I should put these in water before they start a falterin'. Then maybe… you and I can chat some things over dinner," he said with a grin.

As he departed from the kitchen, Ford watched; awkwardly standing alone at the center of the space with nothing but his thoughts to accompany him.

He wasn't exactly sure what he had initiated between him and Fiddleford- a romance? A 'friend-with-benefits' sort of deal?- but whatever it was, he was glad of it.


End file.
